Oderant dum metuant
by NeoStrand
Summary: The niece of Sherlock Holmes' fencing teacher was the daughter of a wealthy and noble family. She grew up in luxury and comfort. However, when strange things began to surface around her, young Holmeswill discover the mystery of the century.
1. first

Okay, People. I've fixed a few small errors and no big change here. I think this is MUCH better, or going much better than my first story. And I expect some reviews rolling in. *grinning shyly* Please? And sorry, I'm as lazy as one can be when it comes to fixing errors (sorry, sorry!) But you know how the story goes. Enjoy.....  
  
  
  
He wiped the sweat off the palms of his hands on his trouser legs. His father, the colonel, would have scream at him for that. His mother would have been distressed to see him like this, for she did not want him to come in the first place. However, Sherlock Holmes was here for his fencing lesson, which was part of what his father called "a man's training." Before he knocked at the magnificent mahogany door, a slight trace of fear came to him before it was brushed aside hastily. A bland-faced servant opened the door and inquired who he was before leading him to the library. His boots treaded on the dark red carpet like the finest burgundy wine. The servant mumbled something about his master not being present at the moment. The tall, dark-haired young man did not hear him, for he was in one of the most splendid room he had ever seen. It was as large as an ordinary house, with books stacked to the roof, which was at least fifteen feet high. All the golden letters on the leathery spines glittered in the sunlight, which came in from the panes of glass on the roof.  
  
He had probably stood there with his mouth open for at least ten minutes after the servant left. A throat cleared behind him. "You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes," a female voice said. He turned and faced a young girl. She wasn't too young, she seemed older even, standing there aloof and unblushing like the Queen of Sheba. "My uncle, Lord Wilkins, is waiting for you in the exercise court." She turned and started walking before he could say a word. He bit the inside of his lower lip and followed her. She was about five-foot tall, too skinny to be in good health, and disliked her uncle's guest by the fast pace which she walked. Her hair was dark brown and reddish, with green eyes to match. Holmes bit his lip again. She reminded him of his mother. With looks like that and her uncle's wealth she could marry well, and just like his mother, marry well into a not-well marriage. Poor girl, he thought.  
  
Lord Wilkins and his father had met a month ago, at a club in London. Apparently, the old man had a hobby of teaching young men at the old art of fencing. The young man himself thought it was rather a waste of time. What good is a body but to support the mind? It is the mind that it is essential here. Waving metal sticks while wearing masks that wouldn't let you breath properly was nothing but a waste of time.  
  
The girl stopped at the side of an opened door and outspreaded her hand, gesturing for him to get in. He saw a man, whose back was turned to them, bending a fencing sword in front of a rack. On the rack, there were almost fifty swords. Some were long and some were short. Some were fancy and some were not. His guest's boots made a disrupting noise upon the hard stone floor, and he turned and smiled, "you must be Sherlock, how do you do? I am Lord Wilkins."  
  
"How do you do, sir," he finally croaked the words out. For some reason he turned, but the girl was gone from the side of the doorway.  
  
"I see that you have met my niece, Aline. Please do not mind her, she is not the sweetest-tempered soul I know. I believe you would want to change into your fencing suit now, so we can begin properly."  
  
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He didn't want to lie to him, but he had no choice. Lord Wilkins seemed to be a nice enough old man, though. Nevertheless, he just had to get out of that mansion. He was running out of breath and patience. He told him that his father wished him to go home early, for there were proceedings for a party that night. It wasn't a complete lie. There was going to be a party, although no one asked him to come. He scratched his head and entered the local town-square bar. He father took care that he wouldn't wear anything lavish as long as he lived under his roof, so his clothes were good enough for a young country lad looking for a good night of drinking, chatting, and guffawing. He did not expect the local pub to be busier than the port of London. People coming in and going out. This young stranger was going around unnoticed, it seemed. He settled himself down at a comfortable spot, with a jar of hot gin in hand.  
  
"Hey, care for a goo' game ov'darts?" he heard someone said behind him, but it was directed to two rough farmers sitting on the stools.  
  
"H-ll no, demmit. You're just too goo' for us, Billy ol'boy. Go find someone else."  
  
"Yeah, how 'bout that new kid sittin' o'er there?"  
  
I'm not deaf you know, you stupid boorish peasant. He muttered under his breath and sipped more gin.  
  
"Hey, you! Hey, you with tha' drink o'er there!" One of the men called to him.  
  
That's it! He stood up and faced them for the first time and he almost choked.  
  
Standing next to the two men, the dart-player, was that green-eyed girl. Except that now, she wore a patched-over jacket with a large wool hat pulled over half of her face. What was even more interesting, there was a scar down her left cheek. It looked very real under the orange-yellow gaslight. Her face was tanned brown with makeup, but it almost turned back to its original paleness when she saw him. She cursed under her breath, something about his mother, it seemed, and gave an excused to her companions before storming out. The two men were too drunk to act otherwise, turned back to each other for more gibberish conversation.  
  
A/N: *evil chuckles* what do you think of the story so far? Well, I know I do horrible accents, (I didn't even know it's cockney!!! Ahem, just a little laugh, don't take it harsh) but you get the idea. I think I've made a pretty good (I didn't say great or the best, etc.) version of SH as a kid. Well, tell me if you like/hate/don't get it.  
  
PS. Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! I'm desperate!!! 


	2. second

Thank you from your generous reviews!!!!!!!! The mystery is coming in, soon. About the fencing lesson. umm, I supposed to put a break in between, but I think the computer lost it when I uploaded (haha). Well, the fact is: he took half of lesson and "ditched." About the transition from mansion to bar . I don't know. I should be more descriptive, but who would want to read about SH walking through mud? (Just a joke.) And a lot of things hear are Holmes' thoughts, but for some reason the italics won't go through. (Worthless Word!!!) I'll underline them or put () around them next time. But bear with them this time, sorry, ahem, again.  
  
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It's really none of my business, he thought. Well, at first, then his mischievous nature got better of him. Like Mycroft said, he had a streak of devil in him that surfaces once in awhile. Holmes came out of the bar. Good thing he was fast, she wasn't more than twenty paces off. What did they call her? Oh, yeah, "Billy! Billy!" he called.  
  
Little Miss Aline stopped and faced him, with gnawing teeth. "What do you want, Holmes?"  
  
"I don't think little girls like you should go about town without a chaperone while dressed like a street Arab," he grinned and said quietly when he got closer.  
  
"I can say the same for you. Why are YOU here? Shouldn't you be heading home?"  
  
"Touché, mademoiselle," his grin grew wider, "but I doubt your uncle would be happy about you going out at such a late hour." Maybe she was not so common and boring like all the other little girls.  
  
"If you are thinking about blackmailing me, forget it." She started walking again, and Holmes came up to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with her. "I can do the same thing for you, Mister Holmes. I believe your father is not the most loving parent one can have."  
  
He felt as if he was struck by lighting. Who was he trying to fool? He had fooled no one but himself these past years, and what he got out of it? Nothing, nothing, but pain. That was rather uncalled for, he thought vehemently, but his upper class training kicked him hard in the ribs to keep him from calling her a female dog. "Well, I believe we have reached a truce here. I'll keep quiet and so will you?"  
  
"Whatever."  
  
@~^~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Keep your arms straight! And tighten those muscles!" Lord Wilkins hit him hard in the stomach, almost knocked the wind out of him. "And keep your eyes peeled at your opponent! Don't slack!" One thing Holmes had discovered in the very short month he had been here was that Lord Wilkins was not the most amiable person when it came to fencing, although he may be a lamb under other circumstances. "Alright, I think we can take a break now. How are you feeling, Sherlock? Tired? Thirsty? John, bring us some lemonade."  
  
"No, I'm alright, just need to catch my breath." Lord Wilkins was staring at him, smiling oddly. "Is there something wrong, sir?"  
  
He wiped his forehead with a towel, "no, no, not at all," he put the wet thing aside, "you know, Sherlock, all these years I have had hundreds of pupils, but a few could master the skill as well as you did."  
  
He didn't really have anything clever to repeat with, so Holmes just said, "I guess all those years of violin lesson have some effect."  
  
"Ahh, you are a student of music?"  
  
"No, just a hobby, a skill even, but I'm not learning to be a musician."  
  
"I see," he nodded, "then what exactly are you going to be?"  
  
He was going to go to university next year and he hadn't the slightest idea of his future. His father wanted him to become either an engineer or a doctor, but he thought these careers were too uninteresting. His oldest brother, Sherridan, was going to be the lord of the manor. His second older brother, Mycroft, was studying politics and economics. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if his much smarter brother became the next PM or something in the government. That left him, the youngest, with nothing. Last born, last place, at last.  
  
"If I may be honest with you, I really don't know." If he knew his father, which he did, this friend of his would ramble on about a man's responsibility in life and Sherlock's foolishness of not acting like a man. Oh, boy.  
  
He was half expecting the said lecture, when Lord Wilkins sighed with a smile, "ahh, those wonder years! It is never easy to not have something mapped out for you, being the youngest. But I judge you do have something in mind? Something scientific perhaps?" So, he was not blind to the fact that Holmes was reading all the scientific periodicals and books in his library.  
  
"Maybe, sir." He was feeling uncomfortable. Lord Wilkins seemed to be taking a keen interest in him.  
  
"Well, that is a start, but I am not your father. I am here to teach you fencing, so we will proceed." 


	3. third

Okay, people (mainly you, yeah, you, moonrose. Nice name though) this is my third part. I had been pretty busy lately, so please excuse me. About my americanism. I try to avoid them but they keep coming back to haunt me. *whimper* Although just last week I saw the "Forsyte Saga" on PBS, in it, a person said "are you screwed?" I nearly jumped out of my seat. My point was, in case you can't make through my confusing logic: it's hard to know about the accurate usage of words in these days. But I try. In case you think my story is going to slowly, yeah, I notice that too. However, I need to build it up, so be patient. the day will come *evil laugh* Please Review (  
  
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"I judged the lesson went well?" Lady Aline found him already changed back into his street clothes.  
  
"Could be worse," he took his coat off the back of a chair.  
  
"Sherlock, I'm afraid that you have been infested with Aline's pertness." Lord Wilkins laughed.  
  
"Am I coming here next week, sir?"  
  
"Oh, we are having a dinner party here next week," Miss Aline said.  
  
Yes! Yes! Finally a day off to catch up with his chemistry experiments.  
  
"I've already invited your whole family to come."  
  
He bid them goodbye and couldn't stop moaning inside. A social gathering was much much worse.  
  
~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~ "Uncle, what do you make of him?" Aline sat back in a cushioned armchair.  
  
"Intelligent, persistent, and physically fit. He's perfect."  
  
"But- "  
  
"But what, my dear Ali?"  
  
"Don't call me that," she smirked at her white-haired uncle. He was her mother's only brother and only sibling, but they weren't close despite the fact he brought her up. She was never close with anyone, because he had made sure of that. "What I meant to say was that he has too much emotion. One can't see it, but one can feel it burning beneath his cold façade."  
  
"I can say the same for you."  
  
Now she was annoyed, "but he isn't aware of it, while I AM. That makes all the difference." She got up and walk away, nose in the air.  
  
Yes, you are aware of it, but can you control it? He thought bemusedly.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The same lot you see at every typical dinner party.  
  
The lot, whose sons were either named after themselves or their brothers. The lot, whose sisters marry either their roommate from college or a second cousin. The lot, whose greatest gift in life was that pile of money left by good old da.  
  
Sickening.  
  
Sherlock wrestled the tie on his neck, trying to loosen it a bit, but in vain. He spotted his eldest brother standing with their father and with a couple of other fashionable British aristocrats. His older brother was engaged with some peerage in a discussion on recent political issues. He, himself, was wandering with a wineglass in hand, like a fly without a head. Holmes was so lost in these thoughts when he bumped into a bulk young man. Thank goodness there was nothing left in his glass.  
  
"Soree, soree," this blonde young man spoke with a heavy French accent. "I deed not see dere yoo," he paused, then corrected himself, "see yoo dere."  
  
Holmes assessed him in a matter of seconds. His family was very well to do, although he apparently had bad taste in clothes. Either that or a Paris salesperson had ripped him off. He was a good horseman and fond of eating. Judging by his green eyes and facial resemblance, he was at least a cousin to Miss Aline.  
  
"It is alright," he said coolly, "my name is Sherlock Holmes."  
  
"Ohh, 'Olms, 'Olmes," he nodded, "my uncle, Lord Wilkins had spoke highly of yoo. He told me tha yoo are his best pupil in years. I am William Blackcastle."  
  
That's odd, he thought as he shook his hand, his name is definitely British. He is also definitely foreign.  
  
"William, there you are," a familiar voice called, "I see you've met Mr. Holmes already." Miss Aline was wearing a light green silk gown that made her eyes glow supernaturally. Her hair was piled spirally on top of her head and dim sparkling jewels glittered throughout. She took instant possession of Mr. Blackcastle's arm, "I told you to follow me, but you just had to go off on your own," she whined, "come on, I'll introduce you to some interesting people." She pulled him away.  
  
Holmes inhaled a deep breath. She was crossing the boundary of being rude and insolent. However, before long, William Blackcastle reappeared by his side. "Oh God, my sister waz introdocing to me som ov her lady friends," he shook his head. He did not need to finish it.  
  
"She's your sister?" that was a shock. Knowing someone for a month without hearing her bragging about her brother was a sure shock.  
  
"Yes, yoo did not knew?" now it was William's shock. "Weel, Alinere iz som whad of an odd." he waved his hands to plead for help.  
  
"Person?"  
  
"Yes, person," he pursed his mouth, "She's velly odd indeed, even I can't figured her out som times." He scratched his head uncomely, yet very boyishly.  
  
Join the club, he thought. Even today, he still hadn't figure out what she was doing in that bar that night and she refused to give insights. He went back a few times, only to find that "Billy" was as more obscure to these townspeople than "Aline."  
  
The subject of their conversation laughed outright, "Mr. Mycroft, I believe you have got the charms in you family." Holmes stiffened.  
  
"No, I believe my younger brother just doesn't know a pretty young lady when he sees one." She laughed again and he stiffened again.  
  
"Sherlock," his mother padded him on the back, "where is your father?"  
  
Last time he saw him, he was following a parlour maid toward the section of the hall where the broom closets were. "No, Mother, I haven't seen him."  
  
Her eyes grew sad, but her voice was still sweet for her favorite son, "oh, I see. I'll just go find my friend Mrs. Hopkins."  
  
This is intolerable! This is intolerable! He screamed inside of his head. "Excuse me," he muttered to William Blackcastle then walked away quickly. 


	4. fourth

Okay, people, I'm really REALLY tired of not able to get my italics AND underlines through. So now I'm putting '' around every thought, titles, emphasis, and whatever it is should have quotes, underline, or italics on them. Btw, Anneliese, even though I love the way you respond to my chapters one- by-one, your fervent is rather scary. *Grinning nervously* Don't let my stupid comment interfere you, Please review more. Geez, Moonrose, a "man-whore?" *gasping while laughing* I even wouldn't go that far. Glad you like my story, though. I just kinda wanna ask on your comment of my "lovely grasp?" You see, I'm very dense when reading other people's "love grasp," for example, their beautifully done reviews.  
  
Enjoy . . . umm, btw, best thanks to my wonderful reviewers (that's all of you) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He splashed cold water on his face and some splattered onto his hair. He stared at himself in the mirror. The pale-faced young man with shiny black hair stared back at him with daunting grey eyes. His eyes and nose were red, making him look almost comical. It was a face that he had stuck with for the course of his life, yet he knew nothing about. He traced the unfamiliar lines at the corners of his mouth that showed the stubbornness that did not belong to the raven-headed boy bouncing at his mother's knees. He then ran his pointy fingertips at the edges of the dark rings under his eyes, until he abruptly stopped himself and left the room. Far away from the mirror that shows the stranger who was him.  
  
  
  
"Sherlock, are you all right?" he was greeted by Lord Wilkins the instant he was out of the facilities. "You look tired," he nodded to that comment, "you know, men of our status are nothing but social animals. I'm sorry I dragged you in." he put a hand on his slim shoulder, which twitched briefly at the fatherly touch.  
  
"It's all right, sir. It isn't such a bad gathering. I'm actually enjoying it." He managed a smile that wouldn't even fool his father.  
  
Lord Wilkins shook his head and laughed, "don't lie. Come on, let's go hide from those monsters in the library. I've got the newest edition of 'Psychological Investigations'."  
  
Holmes found out that night that Lord Wilkins wasn't so dull after all. He had a whole dimension that was kept from the prying eyes of the society. He was brilliant, graduating from Oxford with top marks. He also told Holmes that he might have become a scientist if not because of his social status.  
  
"I don't see why being a 'lord' would stop you from pursuing what you enjoy."  
  
Wilkins laughed, he laughed until tears came to his eyes, "oh, dear. Excuse me, my dear boy. Oh, how I miss being young!" he slapped his knees, "Pardon me, but some things are not so simple as you'd like them to be." Then he changed the subject, "Oh, look at this: 'New Perspective on the Gaelic Attitudes'."  
  
It was probably the most fun Holmes had in years.  
  
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The week after, Holmes showed up for his weekly lesson. Lord Wilkins complained of an arm-ache and invited Holmes to a small walk around his park. It was spring. The freshly bloomed nature greeted them. They started out at the mansion, going south, crossing a small singing creek, and landed at a vastly dense forest. He was a little frightened at the sight of this huge unyielding monster of green, but he bit the inside of his lower lip and followed his companion.  
  
"Careful up ahead, my boy," the old man whispered, "look," he pointed. It was a giant beehive between the branches of two ancient evergreen trees. The tiny winged insects flying in and out, buzzing loudly. "Very curious creatures these are, my boy. With no mind of their own, they toiled day and night only to build a greater colony."  
  
"Maybe it's better that they have no mind of their own," Holmes whispered dreamily. He was captivated by the industrious spectacle of these wondrous yet small creatures. So much like us, he thought.  
  
Lord Wilkins looked surprised, "whatever do you mean by that, my boy?"  
  
He was suddenly embarrassed, "it's, it's just that people sometimes have too much of free mind, that they destroy themselves more than they construct." And sometimes they have too less of a free mind to think for themselves while letting those closest to them hurt them.  
  
"Have you ever thought of the queen?" Lord Wilkins spoke as he did not hear his answer, "She was called a queen but she was nothing more than an egg machine to the colony, the workers. Who is really benefited here? No one in particular, but their race as a general. Maybe Darwin is right. A fit society in which there are no pleasure is more advantage to survive."  
  
"Sir?" he swallowed, "do you think it's better to live unemotionally yet productively, as in the case of the worker bees?"  
  
"That's what Brutus did, he lived by the dictations of reason and responsibility, and he failed miserably."  
  
"But, but," Holmes' face suddenly turned red, "he was following the wrong paths. If he had killed Marcus Anthony when he could, the story would end differently."  
  
"Nevertheless, he believed he was following the right path. One can never be sure of what is right and what is not."  
  
"What if there can be a system developed to make sure one's reason were on the right path?" Holmes said without thinking. It had been on his mind for many years now. The perfect reasoning system. "Sir? Sir?"  
  
"That is rather brilliant, my boy. If such a system could be developed, human kind would owe much to you, my boy." 


	5. fifth

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"Oh, Mycroft, it works, it works!" His older brother murmured something sleepily back. Sherlock had been up all night, writing out what was forming in his mind for many years. He and Mycroft had often played mind games, puzzles, and had tried very often to wit each other out. He had never thought that this process of child's play could be integrated into real- life situations. However, his brother, who will be leaving for Cambridge by train first thing in the morning, was asleep when this amazing step was taken.  
  
Two days later, he appeared at the doorstep of Lord Wilkins' residence with a stack of paper in hand. "Hello, my boy, I see that you have a present for me!" he showed the papers to the amiable old man, whose face brightened continuously as he read. "This is extraordinary! Not quite completed and tested, but indeed extraordinary!" he turned away from the young author, "Aline! Aline! Come over here! Go send for Lady Alinere!" 'What?! Well! She's a girl. She has no place in this scientific breakthrough.' Holmes was insulted that she was the first one to be informed of it. 'Lord Wilkins was treating this like a joke,' he thought bitterly, 'I'll never come here again even if my father pays me to come.'  
  
"Alinere, read what Mr. Holmes had wrote." She actually read it, word for word, then she glanced up. "Well, what do you think of it? Isn't it extraordinary?"  
  
"It will suffice," she said nonchalantly, throwing a cold glance at the author "however, it needs mass improvement. Mr. Holmes, you have left out a major component in your study."  
  
"Whatever do you mean?" he couldn't help but ask.  
  
"You have given examples of old and young, rich and poor, even smart and stupid men, however, it lacks the component of half of the world's population- women."  
  
"Well, she's right, Sherlock. You did not write a single word on women. What is it, John?" a servant came in, "excuse me for a moment." He left the two alone.  
  
He grinned in a awkward side-way fashion at her after her uncle left, "how can I write about women? I'm not one of them."  
  
"But I am."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Despite that he had known Lady Alinere for basically two months now, he had believed her to be an empty-headed, officer-loving, and luxury-depending girl like the rest of the "Lot." That night by the bar was wiped entirely out of his head. Her flirting with Mycroft had done most of erasing. His brother had called her the "prettiest, sweetest-tempered thing on the surface of the world." Why don't you just marry her? He almost said to him, but this was Mycroft's description for every girl he had ever met. He believed she must have gone there out of sheer boredom and nothing more. How wrong he was! Females are by far the more obscure of the two sexes.  
  
"A paper on females serves little purpose in my study but as an analogy to my article," he said indignantly.  
  
"Is that what you think of the female kinds, nothing but appendixes to the males?" she started breathing hard, with her face scarlet, "so I see that the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree. Following your pater's example like a good little boy."  
  
He looked at her, dumbfounded, "how dare you? I shall not have to endure this impudence from you."  
  
"Yes, because I'm a girl, right? Because my hair is long and I have to wear dresses, because I am weak, because I am not strong enough, because I'm not smart enough for anything!" she closed her eyes and swallowed, "that's what you think, right? Answer me! Right?"  
  
"I have no disrespect for the female sex, I assured you, Lady Aline." He voice was firm and furious, "and I definitely do not follow my father's footsteps. I have uppermost respect and affection for my mother. Although I do not show much devotion to you, Lady Aline, it is because we are not on very good terms, as acquaintances. Also, what my father does or any member of my family do doubtlessly will not concern you."  
  
"Defending your father, I see."  
  
"I am not defending my father! In fact, I don't care what you say of him! If you call him a hundred hideous things, I won't care a shred. He deserves it. On the plus side, I'll even help you to come up with all kinds of 'colorful metaphors' to describe him. He treats my mother badly, and anyone can see that. But only my brothers and I have the pains of seeing it repeated day after day after day!" he took a deep breath, "You cannot judge me by what you make of me, because you don't know my circumstances or me well enough. You don't have the slightest idea of the hell I live through everyday all my life. I hate that man for all the misery he brought us, I shall not and will not defend him, ever." He expected her to cry or apologize after his disgraceful outburst, but she just stood there and looked at him as if she had never seen him before.  
  
"You say that I don't know your circumstances well enough. I know exactly what you had lived through." She sank into a nearby chair limblessly, "why do you think that I live with my uncle?" she sniffed, but no tear came out, "my father abandoned me, he abandoned me because I wasn't the child he wanted, and what did he do? He sent my mother to a mental ward and married another woman," she laughed, "who gave him the son he wanted. And he sent me to England to his brother-in-law when I was three months old. I never met him since. He cares nothing about me or my mother, and I have to live with that."  
  
"I, I'm sorry. What happened to your mother?" he was afraid to know.  
  
"She hanged herself. She actually went crazy in the nut house." Her laughter was vibrant and bitter.  
  
"I, I didn't know. I'm- "  
  
She waved the rest of his sentence away, "now you know why I was so angry. I just thought you might be. you know, like your father. My uncle thinks highly of you, I just don't want him to regret his choice. Now, I don't think he will, I certainly won't."  
  
His voice shook, "Than--- thank you," then he thought for a moment in silence, "my father was never kind to any of us. It was like he had this anger toward us, for no reason. There wasn't a day came by that I didn't feel hate for him and sympathy for my mother. Sometimes, I thought that having no parents at all would be much better than this. Sometimes, I wish I could just die." He didn't want to cry. Not here, not in front of her. He shouldn't have said what he said, either. That streak of devil sometimes ran him free, he couldn't control it anymore.  
  
She smiled at him, "it'll be all right." It will be how he'll remember her for the rest of his life, bitter and sweet, sad and brave.  
  
~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"What made you do that, Alinere?" her uncle looked displeased. He had gotten an explicit account of the conversation that was passed between the two from a servant. She was to be shown to the world as an empty-headed, officer-loving, and luxury-depending girl like the rest of the lot. Intelligence and passion from a girl brings suspicions, and in their case, suspicions and danger.  
  
She shrugged in a very unladylike fashion, and said, "he revealed to me what he would never have said under any other circumstances. He probably told me more about his feelings than he ever told his mother or brothers," she lifted the white satin curtain a bit and saw the subject of their conversation stepping into a carriage his mother sent.  
  
The old man's eyebrows tightened, "so you thought it was all right to tell him what he ought not to know." He disliked the way that she still could not control her zealous emotions. 'Her time is coming soon, and she still lets her heart to rule over her head.'  
  
"No," she turned her face to him, eyes glaring, "that is not what I think. I think that secrets bind people together, don't you? We need him to be on our side, this was what you told me. He'll learn the truth sooner or later, so why not give him part of the truth now."  
  
Lord Wilkins first grinned, then started laughing. Before he left the room, he told the skinny girl who stood in front of the window, "as the student excels the master, the cycle of the world is complete." 


	6. sixth

Okay, here goes nothing. Btw, thank you Anneliese for your generous comments. It's a fine story, but I pretty sure that you are over-reacting. Still . . . Don't call me stupid, but what's "rnrn"? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Sherlock, have you read today's newspaper?" Sherridan asked him. Mycroft was away at a trip with a couple of his friends. Holmes got to spend his Christmas Break stuck with his eldest brother, his mother, and what was worst, his father.  
  
"No, what's new?" he looked up from the bubbling beaker, otherwise as Mycroft called it, "Master Sherlock's cauldron of doom."  
  
"How did you know that I was going to tell you something?" Sherridan winced a little at the green liquid. His last experience with it resulted in some third degree burns.  
  
He shrugged, "I saw you reading the newspaper at breakfast, you also seemed surprised while you were reading, and also," he grinned mischievously, "you always tell me things from the Times."  
  
"Don't be pert with me, mister." His big brother shook his head, then resumed conversation, "do you know about the Russian foreign minister's murder?"  
  
Count Kpachinsky had arrived in London on commission a month ago. He had brought with him two secretaries, his wife, and his young son. The murder occurred no more than twenty-four hours before it was discovered. His secretaries were drugged severely as they were still in a comatose state when the papers were published. The Count himself was brutally tortured before he died. "He was hanged upside down from the ceiling as a pool of blood formed on the floor as the blood dripped from his dangling hands" the newspaper described. What was worse, the Count's wife had runaway with her son. There were no traces of them left, not a scrap of their whole closet of clothes or luggage were left.  
  
"Gruesome woman," Sherridan remarked, "the Scotland Yard had to catch her or they'll get plenty of nasty letters."  
  
"Scotland Yard couldn't catch a cold," Holmes replied. He had just solved his first case a week ago. He couldn't help thinking about investigating this one. Why would a woman murder her husband in a foreign country, where she had no place to turn to? Unless. "Did they have a description of the Countess' background?"  
  
"Wait," the big man stumbled through an even bigger pile of different newspaper pages, "here it is."  
  
Countess Catherine Kpachinsky, age 39. Born: Catherine Wilmington, June 17, 18- in Reading, England. Blonde hair, blue eyes; tall: five- seven, etc, etc. And there was a description of her son, Frederick.  
  
"So she's actually English!" Sherridan blurted out, "they should check with her relatives if they have brains. And to think she had a child! I wonder what kind of murderess she was, not just killed, but tortured! I wonder who helped her, surely a woman can't do it all herself! And I wonder if the child watched the whole thing. Horrible, absolutely horrible!" he kept on blubbering this complete nonsense.  
  
"Sherridan?" Holmes hadn't heard a word he said. He was starring attentively at the photograph of the murdered Count that accompanied the newspaper article. "Would you mind telling father and mother that I'm going to London for the day?"  
  
"What business do you have in London?"  
  
"Tell them I 'may' be back for dinner," and he was out.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"You know, sir. This is not a zoo. People can't just come in here to goggle at a murder scene." The bobby was quite polite, but determined.  
  
"I am not just one of the public, I assure you." Holmes said in his most innocent voice, "I am a reporter for a descriptive sketch of the crime scene."  
  
"A reporter?" he was not very convinced, "most reporters have came yesterday. Why are you so late?"  
  
"Oh, no no," Holmes smiled, taking out a slate and pencil, "I'm here to draw the crime scene."  
  
"Ain't photographing faster?"  
  
"Sir, I work for the Granger magazine," he said in a wounded tone, "a highly sophisticated periodical. My customers would be enraged if I don't provide them an artistic piece. So, please excuse me." He walked in, leaving the poor man speechless. The bobby followed him inside. True to his word, he started sketching, while the working officers just stared at him.  
  
"Stevenson, what's he doing here?"  
  
"Sir, he said he works for a magazine. He's here to sketch the crime scene."  
  
No one minded the tall thin young man for the rest of that day, who trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten others' presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope. Alas, he was done and brushed his trousers as he stood up. He straightens his jacket, shuffles the papers straight before putting them into file, and before he could leave, an inspector stopped him.  
  
"May I see your sketches, sir?"  
  
"Sure, of course," he appeared to be dazed at first, which caused the inspector some private amusement. Then he opened his notebook and handed his sketches to him.  
  
There were ten pages of pencil sketches, on every angle of the room. "Hmmm, you are a very talented artist, sir." The inspector noticed that none of the sketches contained the hanging body, but he thought better of than asking and to appear . . . well, unsophisticated in front of this apparent "artist."  
  
"Thank you," Holmes replied politely. 'Bloody fool,' he thought. "If you don't mind, I have to get these quickly to the press."  
  
"Of course, of course." He handed them back and watched the young man leave. The Granger Magazine? Never heard of it. Must be a thing for the rich people. He tilted his hat and went back to work.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Sherlock, where have you been?" his mother said anxiously. Her usually neat hair was looking like a bird's nest, and her lips were pale and trembling.  
  
"Nowhere, Mother. Just outside walking," he knew these conditions were killing her, but there was nothing he could do. She was resolute to not leave their father.  
  
"Yes, Madam."  
  
"Well, dinner will be cold if you don't hurry. Christopher, take Master Sherlock's coat to the closets." She grabbed his hands with her small ones, "my, your hands are cold! There's some hot soup ready for you." In contrary, her hands were the ones like ice.  
  
The two of them went into the dining room, which was bright and shiny with dozens of candles, silverware, and fine bone china. In the center of the north wall was a giant marble fireplace with tongues of flames dancing and cracking about. Sherridan came in the moment they did. The head of the household was sitting at the head of the table, frowning at the evening news.  
  
"Is there something interesting in the papers, Father?" The eldest son spoke first as a servant drew his chair for him. Two other servants did so for his mother and youngest brother.  
  
"No, none at all," he did not even look up, "only the usual: murders, international scandals, and the economy plunging down while the bloody Americans have their pockets filled with gold."  
  
"Oh," Sherridan grimaced a little, then resumed conversation, "is there anything on the Russian foreign minister's murder?"  
  
"Yes, they caught the woman and the boy," he gave the paper to a servant, who handed it to Sherridan, "it turns out that the boy isn't even the count's son."  
  
"He wasn't?" Holmes was a little disappointed.  
  
Count Kpachinsky had left a will. In it, he described of his wife's adulterous practices and his inability to consummate the marriage. He left all his titles and fortune to a child by his first marriage. He also stripped his wife and her son of any titles and claims to what he owned. There were also love letters to prove that Frederick wasn't his son, which were, of course, not published in the papers.  
  
"Where did they find the countess?" Holmes was interested.  
  
"It says here," Sherridan read, "that the police found her at her father's old home, which is deserted. Also, she was taken into custody and her son was sent temporarily to an orphanage."  
  
"When is Mycroft going to be back?" their mother was uncomfortable about this topic.  
  
"Tonight, right?"  
  
"We have a Christmas party invitation to Lord Wilkins' mansion tomorrow, don't we?"  
  
"Yes, mother."  
  
Then they spent the rest of the course sipping soup in awful silence. Mycroft was lucky to have gotten away.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
A/N: Sorry that I just HAD to break the story up at this point. But I can warrant that the "meat" is next. I'm afraid this thing is stretching on and on forever, nevertheless, I do make very short chapters (much easier to manage). *Grin* read on and review, if you don't . . . I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. *Apologetic smile* Just kiddin'! 


	7. seventh

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ @~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Sherlock Holmes was tired of standing in a corner at parties. Sometimes, he'd rather be in with people or not in a party at all. There were hundreds of people standing and sitting around in close circles, while chatting, laughing, and drinking. He felt faint from the smells of perfumes, alcoholic beverages, and closely packed Homo sapiens.  
  
"Sherlock, there you are. Come with me," Alinere took his arm and literally dragged him toward a more secluded section of the main ballroom.  
  
His first reaction was surprise and confusion, then he realized they weren't alone. There were several young men sitting at a table. Upon their entrance, they all stood up and greeted deferentially, "Lady Alinere."  
  
"You have already met these relatives of mine, haven't you, Mr. Holmes?" Yes, he had, as a matter of fact, always heard their names mentioned in the newspapers and dinner discussions. They were sons of very influential people. One was a first cousin of the Prince of Wales, two were sons of foreign ministers from France and Austria, and of the rest of the five were two sons of peerage and three were peers themselves. "They had all studied fencing under my uncle, and they are just dying to meet you." Of the eight, the oldest was a few years older than Holmes, and the youngest was about Alinere's age.  
  
The youngest, who was introduced as Lord Maurice Hughenfort, a Hughenfort of the Justice Hall, spoke first, "Lady Alinere had mentioned to us about your system of perfect reasoning. I'm very eager to know more about it, Mr. Holmes." He was short and a little on the plump side but had a sharp chin and keen dark eyes.  
  
It had been so long since he belonged to a group. They spoke eloquently and brilliantly. They were all very intelligent young men, and their discussion touched upon every aspect of society. It was not until later that he realized that as the only female of the group, Lady Alinere was actually the leader. It was not until much later that he realized she was their leader, in many senses.  
  
"So, how are the eager young minds of tomorrow?" Lord Wilkins came up to them with Holmes' father, who frowned immensely at Sherlock.  
  
"We are just discussing French literature, Uncle," Edward Rubrius, the young Duke of Hanmel said brightly. No, actually they had been talking about democracy and the makings of government.  
  
"Ah," Lord Wilkins exclaimed in his usual way, "the wonder years, you shan't bother them, should we? Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock's father opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then though better of it, and left with his host.  
  
"That is your father?" Edward remarked as he took a sip from his wineglass.  
  
"Yes, Your Grace," Holmes turned to him, "by the way, does the air of Yorkshire agree with you much better than France?"  
  
The Duke's eyes nearly popped out of his sockets, he turned his head to his sibling, "Cousin Alinere, I could not believe what Uncle said about him. I see now they were true." He faced Holmes once again, "just how did you know that, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
He related to him, beside the obvious details, evidences from the boots he was wearing to a scrape of lint on his shirt. Perhaps he was becoming quite a conceited ass, but the others clamored at his amazing ability. Lady Alinere sat at the side, viewed the scene with a tiny smile at her lips. Plan was proceeding as arranged.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Mycroft, what do you make of it?" he had been reading the newspaper, Holmes' notes, and looking at the sketches for almost an hour now. They had retired to the rooms that Lord Wilkins had prepared for them. Holmes had shown his collection of data, which were tugged safely in his small suitcase among his shirts and trousers, to his much smarter older brother.  
  
He just shook his head, "insufficient data, although I wouldn't be so snappy about confirming the woman done it, at least not by herself." Yes! Yes! That was exactly what he thought.  
  
"Yes, see here," he pointed, "the cuts were done by both left hand and right hand, and the depth were far from being even. It could be a woman struggling, but more likely done by multiple hands and people."  
  
"But the question is," Mycroft said thoughtfully, "who were the murderers and what was their motive?" He looked up with what he was about to say in his eyes, "did the Count had any enemies?"  
  
~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
He had always had problems sleeping, while with a complicated problem hanging over his head. He turned several times on the bed and shut his eyes real tight, for a while. He placed his hands under his head, and then he tried to bury his face in the pillows. He finally gave up and got of the bed. His feet turned numb and pale on the icy stone-cut floor. Moonlight was peering into a bizarre looking window, which looked like it was about to tilt over. He laid his right hand on the glass pane and blew hot air on it. A blob of steam formed easily. Satisfied, he sat down and crossed his long legs on an ottoman by the desk. Suddenly, he heard a strange noise midst the quietness of night. It sounded like the footfalls of a cat on crisp autumn leaves, or his brother Sherridan eating burnt scones. Without thinking, he opened the window. This took some effort since apparently this room had not been resided for quite awhile. The noise stopped as soon as the windows creaked open. He poked his head out and saw a dark figure, hanging, onto the wall of the mansion. It was so close to him that he could have reached it, right there, right then.  
  
His heart pounded wildly, as he narrowed and focused his eyes. "Lady Alinere?" he said incredulously and was greeted by a grumble and a "what do you want?" "What are you doing over there?"  
  
"What does it look like I'm doing, you imbecile," he imagined her to roll her eyes in the dark, "certainly you don't think I was trying to sleep here, do you?"  
  
"Scaling walls is a most unladylike sport. I assure you. By the way, would you mind telling me where are you going?" he hissed back.  
  
"I'm going to town," she said as if there was nothing wrong with that.  
  
"Right now?"  
  
"Yes, right now. I'm not going to waste the best part of the night engaging in conversation with YOU. I have business to attend to. G'night." She lowered herself a couple of feet, then stopped, "you know what, you can come along if you want to."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
There were heavy ancient vines that covered the wall, twisting the bricks, choking the old building. It was no wonder that she could climb it so easily. Of course, she must have had a lot of practice since Holmes himself nearly fell several times, and once he actually fell into a nearby bush. She watched as he got up, brushed himself, then walked on as if they were taking a tour in broad daylight. She stuffed her hands in her male attire pockets and whistled the latest popular opera.  
  
"Now, can you tell me where are you going?" he removed a twig from his hair.  
  
"Soon enough," she adjusted her hat, "you can go back if you want to," she saw him looking back at the mansion.  
  
"No, that would be ungentlemanly, leaving you here by yourself." Actually, he would feel sorry for whomever unfortunate enough to try to rob her. With a crude wooden staff as a walking stick in hand, she resembled one of those "green mountain men" in America who could live off the land and obeyed no laws.  
  
"Always the gentleman, even though you are not accompanying a lady?" she laughed. Steam from her breaths was visible under the moonlight. "Why do you want to come with me?"  
  
"What? You asked me to." He couldn't believe he was hearing this.  
  
"No, that's not what I meant," she stopped and looked at him meaningfully, "you want to find out."  
  
"Find out what?" he stopped also and faced her, "is it some sort of joke on your part, Lady Alinere?"  
  
"Don't lie," she turned back and started walking fast ahead of him. Her tone was as if she was reciting a burdensome sentence that she wanted to get rid of as soon as possible, "you want to find out my secret, don't you? You want to know who exactly I am. You have been puzzled with it ever since we first met and you are here right now so I can expose to you my true identity." Her eyes looked black, shiny black, from the shadows.  
  
"Yes, I do know that you are not who you seem to be. That's obvious. And you are right about that I'm curious. So are you going to tell me or not?" Now, he was starting to have serious thoughts about going back.  
  
"Do you believe in destiny?"  
  
"Are you changing the subject?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, yes and no. I believe in destiny, but I also think that each person should make his or her own destiny in life."  
  
She nodded and asked, "what if I tell you that my destiny is to rule the rulings?"  
  
"What?"  
  
  
  
The reason that the monarchies of Europe had held out for such a long time was that there was a unifying force keeping their world together. The Trinity Order, so named because there were always three prestigious members heading this society, had appointed kings and earls, determined the outcomes of wars, and ruled all. These people ran their paths by bloodlines and inheritances. Their members were of great abilities and brilliant minds. Nevertheless, they still had to swear an oath never to give up their secrecy. A privileged few, whom of strong intellects that set every course of history, was something to be feared and despised by the common people.  
  
"If it is such a special and secret fellowship," he said when she finished, "why are you telling me all this?"  
  
"Because we need a mind like yours among us, we need your help." She came to a halt, "because there is no one else who have a greater gift for observation than you, Holmes." She looked down at her feet, "because we are at an extremely difficult time right now, and because the safety of our order and the entire world is at stake." She looked him in the eyes, "so, you can walk back to your old life, or join my brothers and I in this mission for the greater good. The choice is yours." She held out her right hand. 


	8. eighth

Sorry, I've just had a very trying day. Can't say more but: Enjoy. . . (if you can)  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"The choice is mine?" he whispered largely to himself. She smiled at him, as if she knew what was on his mind. It made him angry, extremely angry. "I, I," he stuttered, "I don't believe you. This is some sort of prank. I shall not be subject to such insolence. I'm going back. I don't belong here."  
  
"Please stop." It did not escape him that she said "please." "We do need your help. Come and speak with my brothers. You will understand. Come." She entered the town-square, which was long deserted and cold. One could hear muffled snoring and dog barking once in a while, but no more. She walked around the bar, circled it and arrived at the back door. Her "walking stick" knocked on the plank door three times, and a pair of glittering shrewd eyes appeared at a small opening that opened with the sound of a gaol door.  
  
"Ahh, Master Billy," these shifted toward Holmes, "I see that you have brought a friend today." Something clicked and the door swung open. Aline stepped in and gestured her companion to enter. She lifted a piece of sky blue cloth that covered the opening of another doorway. Bright candle light shone through, almost blinding the young man. It was a scene completely unexpected by him. Sitting around a giant fireplace were the young men from the party. Some of them reclined on the massive armchairs, a few were drinking scotch, and all were talking in low yet clear voices. Upon their entering, they all stopped and looked up with surprise on their faces.  
  
"Why is he here, Aline?" Edward Rubrius did not hesitate to ask, "I thought the decision had not been reached."  
  
"Drastic times call for drastic measures," Aline removed the scarf around her neck and sank down in a chair, "this just arrived." She held up a piece of telegram to her cousin, who glanced at it then passed it down to others.  
  
"Blasted," he said, taking a mouthful from his glass, "I knew something like this was going to happen. That bloody coward jilted us." The comment produced quite a few murmurs and glances toward Holmes. "I'm afraid Aline's right. He's in, there's my vote." The others nodded and turned their eyes on Alinere.  
  
"Is there something that you wish to say, Mr. Holmes?" the eyes all turned back to him again.  
  
"Er, I, umm, a-hem," this was awkward. "Why exactly am I here?"  
  
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, may I call you 'Sherlock'? And let me be 'Edward' to you," Receiving a positive response, Edward Rubrius stood up in his clear- cut elegant figure. He ran a hand through his shiny blonde hair then continued, "well, Sherlock, as you know about the Trinity Order." Alinere nodded to confirm his assumption, "we for years had been trying to keep Russia and Great Britain out of a direct conflict that might lead to a widespread European war. Just last year, we had to perform several missions and conventions between the two to resolve many misunderstandings. The Czar of Russia, however, has hired agents to acquire a list of British naval positions in the Baltic Sea. And the man who was to intercept it for us has disappeared." He banged his fist on the table, the ice in the glass clinked loudly.  
  
"So what am I suppose to do?" It sounded awfully complicated, and nevertheless, romantic and dangerous.  
  
Edward mouthed his words cautiously, "find him. Find the traitor for us."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Our target is the man so-called the 'Scarlet Ibis,' middle age, Caucasian, brown eyes, black hair, a highly visible scar on his right hand. His real name and origins are unknown. However, he is highly popular among London thieves and cutthroats." She handed Holmes a piece of paper and proceeded, "here is some information on his crime and activity records. Study it carefully." Apparently, she had already committed the list to her memory. "He was last heard from at 342 Bradley Street, north of London, yesterday morning. And believe me, four odds out of five, he's still in London. We'll have to hurry."  
  
"Hurry?" then he read the list and forgot the problem of his parents getting in the way, "it says here that he had lived at Bradley Street for the past two months. I'd like to see the place first. Also, do you have connections to railway stations and sea ports?"  
  
"That," she said with a self-satisfied tone, "are all taken care of. Our agents at all the ports, station, and posts were warn five hours ago." Her face then turned grim. "However, nothing turned up so far, which means he's still in London, unless he hitchhiked."  
  
"No," Holmes shook his head, "he wouldn't have hitchhiked. It's too dangerous to go alone and he wouldn't have trusted anyone."  
  
"How would you know that?" Maurice Hughenfort asked. Compared to the others, he was very young and innocent looking. Even compared to Alinere, who was as old as he was, he seemed inexperienced. It must be mentioned that Alinere was an expert member of the Trinity Order, and anyone could have seen that. Despite her girlish features and that disgusting green cap she was wearing, she commanded most attention and loyalty of the room.  
  
"His line of profession signifies that. He belongs to the London's Forger Organization. Their code of conduct stressed not to trust anyone." Holmes bent his head down and continued to read, "it seems that he has a very high profile here. What made you think you could use him?"  
  
"He is a traitor, that's why!" Edward appeared to be a tad high on the alcohol.  
  
"A traitor?" the young detective frowned, "he is one of you?"  
  
"No, he 'was,' but that's not important. We have to find him before he sets for Russia. By then, all would be lost."  
  
A small voice whispered at the back of Holmes head, which was mainly engaged in memorizing the list he was given. He first ignored it, then it grew so loud for attention that he said to say something, "the murder of Count Kpachinsky. Does that relate to this by any chance?"  
  
"Not in anyway that I can think of. At least not directly," Edward shrugged, then he looked at Alinere, and spoke more soberly than before, "his wife killed him, didn't she? It was all in the papers."  
  
"People can be easily deceived," he murmured half-heartedly, "when is our search going to begin?" It meant a lot of investigating, questioning, and not to mention, shuffling.  
  
"There's no better time than right now, m'dear Holmes." 


	9. nineth

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"I don't care what everyone thinks of her, that girl is trouble." Colonel and Mrs. Holmes were getting ready for breakfast. It had been a long time since they had shared a room, much less a bed. Violet Holmes insisted on helping her husband with his necktie. Despite the fact that they were going home today, he still abused the poor girl's reputation, "Her voice is too loud. She flirts. She laughs. And worse, she acts as if she was a boy."  
  
"I think Alinere is a quiet and sweet girl. I've never seen her acting in any uncomely way."  
  
"Even a gorgon's perfect in your eyes," he pushed her hands away and readjusted his tie in front of the mirror, "you should have seen her, chatting with a bunch of young men as if no thing wrong with that or they were little girls like her. She'll never be a flawless British young lady, I tell you, and quit your matchmaking. Even Sherlock's too good for her. That's what you get when you have bad blood in you. Lord Wilkins told me that her mother was French."  
  
"But my mother had a French brought up."  
  
"Exactly my point." Bang! He shut the door behind him.  
  
Mrs. Violet Holmes vaguely remembered Alinere's mother as the famous, or rather, the infamous, Lady Blackcastle, who was the 'prime donna' of the elite Parisian society until her second marriage took her to a far foreign country. 'Was it Austria?' She thought, 'or Russia?' No wonder Alinere was so beautiful, she definitely took after her mother. Who was her father? She was always presented as Lady Alinere and nothing else.  
  
These thoughts quite occupied Violet as she walked down stairs. She found her husband and their host. She was told that her son went on a brief trip with Alinere's brother to the City, and he'll go back to their London home on his own. She almost laughed as she saw the displeased lines between her husband's brows. Not for a second did she have a clue of what her son was doing.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Hullo, young'un, care for a little fun with mama?" a woman approaching her late forties, dressed in a piece of clothing not even big enough for a doll, called to the boy with a scar down his left cheek. His green eyes narrowed in disdain as he pushed her away with a trail of insults that resembled that of a sailor's. "Fine, you little- " she said, then she was again pushed aside by a much taller and older man, who did not even glance at her and followed the boy. "Tsu!" she spitted, "h-ll with ye all!"  
  
"That was some language you got there, Master Billy," Holmes was uncomfortable in this ill-clad, unsanitary sphere. He had often came to London, usually visits to the BM and such, never ever had he step beyond the boundary of sanity.  
  
"Master Billy" grinned, "if you want to survive in this business you'll have to learn to become different characters, and," she could see that he was getting queasy, "get used to all kinds of wonderful environments."  
  
"Great," he smacked his lips and shook his head. "I'm having second thoughts on this thing."  
  
She could not help but laugh, "no way, it's too late. We are here." She glanced at him then turned her gaze onto a tiny flat stuck between two gigantic warehouses. "My people had already checked the place out. It appeared the target had moved out no more than three days ago, with two months of rent unpaid. He had taken everything with him, except the furniture, which are the owner's. By the way, by what method do you want to get in?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Never mind, the owner isn't home, there's only one way." She walked up to the door and pulled out a piece of metal hook from her front pocket. She placed her body very close to the door, so her oversized jacket well covered up the movements of her hands. With a click the door opened. "C'mon," she waved her companion in.  
  
"Did you just pick the lock open?" he said when they were in and the door shut.  
  
She placed her instrument back where it was, "yes, I did. And I think you should learn it before long. So," she inspected the room, "my best men couldn't find anything helpful here. Let's see what you can do."  
  
Even though years later he would pick locks and knock down doors without a second thought, as a young man bred in the finest air of Yorkshire high society, he still had a few skepticism about breaking laws. But business first, he checked the most obvious places like in the drawers and bookcases. He wasn't surprised that he found nothing. Alinere stood and watched the front from the window, in case someone came bustling in. She eyed the busy mass below while whistling "Turkish March." He checked the window drapes and beneath the furniture. She whistled. He checked the corners and edge of the walls, while wanting to throw a book at her or something to make her stop. She still whistled. He found a tiny piece of red mud at the side of the cheap carpeting and a scrape of newspaper next to the fireplace. She came and grabbed him by the neck. He was leaning down, so it was easier for her than the arm. "Follow me," she spoke almost inaudibly. They were at the back studies window. Holmes followed her by sliding down the rain pipe. "What is it?" he asked her when they both reached ground level.  
  
"There," she threw her head to the side. Two constables were working on the front door lock, while a crowd watched with fascination. "Someone must have ticked them off," she said with a silent rage, "we were betrayed."  
  
They came to a small beverage shop for some tea and laughed silently with a devilish amusement as the bobbies across the street scratched their heads at the empty house. Meanwhile, he related to her his findings. She put two lumps of sugar in his cup as he wanted and drank hers bland. "I know where the Scarlet- "  
  
"Scarlet Ibis."  
  
"Yes, I know where he is. He is at Hull, I'm sure of it."  
  
"How can you be so sure?" she crossed her legs under the table.  
  
"Here," he took out the envelopes in which he saved his findings, "this is a piece of pottery mud only found to the south of Yorkshire Wolds, it's extremely rare. A few summers ago I've spent time with a relative of mine who is an antique admirer. Also," he gave the piece of newsprint to her, "this is a part of 'Hull's Gazette,' for it has a tiny curve at the end of every 'l'."  
  
"Maybe someday you can teach me to be more observant," this made him blush a little, "good work, Holmes. I knew we could rely on you," she stood up and withdrew a few small coins for the drink, "I'll have to get the information to my men. They'll start extra guard in the port of Hull. You want to come?"  
  
"No, no, I think I'd rather go home on my own, thank you." he was glad she did not see the way his fingers were shaking. It had been an interesting and trying day for him. Adventure, challenge, and success, all in one day, what more could a person need? A little time to calm him down. He didn't want to go back to their London house, at least, not yet. He sat there, with his head leaned back, for almost ten minutes until he felt an icy metal rod pointed at the back of his neck. "Please don't move," a gruff male voice hissed, "unless you want your brain be shot into a million pieces." He swallowed hard and glanced around only to find no one able and near enough to help him. 'Where are those damned officers when you need one?'  
  
There was nothing to do but do as he was told. He got up and stood arm-in- arm with his abductor. That was when he first had a sideways look at him. He was tall, as tall as Holmes was, with a heavy beard, apparently fake, and extremely bushy eyebrows, those were real. "Please come with me," his tone was from northern England, perhaps as far as Edinburgh. They walked out and down the street. For twenty minutes, no word was passed between them.  
  
"Where are you taking me?" he was, after all, scared.  
  
"For a little walk," he said bemusedly, "and a little talk about the Trinity Order." 


	10. tenth

I am so sorry. I know this excuse's old: my computer broke down. But it did happen. *darn!* So, here's more. Truth to tell. . . the quality isn't as good as before. I'm planning to wrap it up and start on the second to the sequel soon. I feel like Doyle writing from and after the Adventure of Empty House. *hehehe*  
  
Enjoy, Review please, it'll help me a lot. Thanx!  
  
She sat down by the side of the street, right next to a pile of mud that smelt distinctively organic. Her arms were crossed in front of her flat, underdeveloped chest, and her eyes searched shrewdly at every passing face. It was a hobby of hers. Sitting by the road, pretending to be a piece of the wall, watching all kinds of different pedestrians. A little girl dropped her tiny doll's shoe, which rolled right in front of Alinere. It made her smile. She picked it up and handed it back to the little princess in satin, who, in turn, smiled shyly back at the dirty yet handsome stranger. Her mother, however, pulled her away with a nasty scold. She continued to look at them as they walked away, at the smaller figure practically merged with the taller figure in skirts.  
  
"Mothers are all fools, and all fools are alike." She was taught in the earliest years of her so-called training. How old was she? Couldn't be more than three or four, she supposed. What is it like to have a mother? To have a warm presence near oneself and a authority figure to turn to when in distress. It was the first time in many years she had wondered about that, then she slapped herself mentally. She had Lord Wilkins, and that was enough. She had learned very early, perhaps too early, in life that she was different from other people. She had a destiny that was far greater than any man of her time. She was the heir to an old and powerful society. Nevertheless, a dying society that was now composed of nothing but fools and imbeciles. She had vowed to rebuild the Trinity Order, but that was not enough. She needed resources to help her get there. Her resources? Herself, that young man Holmes, and her uncle if she was willing to trust him. However, there was more to that, far more. But the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, these forces had to be united.  
  
Alinere blew some hot, steamy air on her cold pale fingers and yawned. It was getting late. Oh, yes, what about Holmes? He was an enigma if there ever was one. There were days that she was sure that he wore his heart on his sleeves, yet there were most times she could not get anything out of him even if she cut him open like a trout. Nonetheless, there was this. . . certain. . . quality of natural aloofness that made her jealous. These cold British ways, she thought, that boy has outdone his fathers and grandfathers combined together. No matter how she spurned the common mass, no matter how she repeated to herself of her noble ancestry, she always felt no better than those dirty-eating worms. Holmes, on the other hand, had done it perfectly well without any nurturing of it. A tiny smile appeared at the corners of her lips. Good thing no one saw it, for her handsome face then looked wild to the degree of insanity. She also knew that he was not as infallible as he appeared, and it was his utmost weakness.  
  
She hated being so calculating all the time, it was a natural reflex for her. For once, maybe she could just live for the moment, without a thought to the consequences. It was impossible. The responsibility was too great a risk. From the distance, she could hear a clock hitting at twelve. It was time to go.  
  
She passed through revenues and stinking streets, crossed the open sewerage and ran her hand pass the cold stone walls. London, London, it was still a strange city to her. It's got so many people but it's got no soul. She sighed a little, just a little. Then without warning, a figure flew by, brushed her slightly, then vanished into the shadows again. She looked down in her hand, there was a tiny piece of paper that wasn't there before. It ran, in a hurried scrawl:  
  
H- captured: warehouse on south-side Florence Street. Hurry.  
  
"Blasted," she muttered under her breath.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Sir, I have absolutely no clue of what you are speaking of." Holmes stated defiantly then swallowed hard, "if this is some sort of robbery, I can state that I don't have more than a shilling on me and would be more than glad if you can just let me go." Holmes scanned their surrounding: a giant empty warehouse. Damn, nothing to use as a weapon, unless you can use years supply of dust to kill. He then turned his attention to his captor, to his gun. Holmes never knew how danger can immensely increase his concentration. His age: fourty-five to fifty. Height: no more than six-foot- two. Occupation: rough work with his hands, possibly blacksmith or factory worker or both. Suffered mild arthritis. Haven's slept for at least two days. Just ate a mince pie for dinner. Not very casual with guns. . .  
  
As Holmes ran this things over in his head, his captor grinned shakily, still aiming the revolver with a even less steady hand, "all of you are nothin' but bunch of cheats and liars." "That gal has done a good job of training you." That gal? Oh, no. He knows of Alinere. "I know what kinda stuff y'all made of and I know I won't be able to get anythin' outta you." He made the gun click. "But I do know, however, that one Trinitian down is one soul gone to hell." Then he grinned, a mouth full of crooked teeth on a face full of crooked pleasure.  
  
"Gone to hell? Wait, wait, what are you talking about?" he didn't know what to think. This apparent crazy individual acted as if he find the Trinity Order atrocious. But that was not Holmes' chief objective right now, it was to stay alive. He knew if he could just diverge his attention for a fraction of a second, he could get that gun. Nonetheless, there was still a great risk. His fighting training had gave him incredible reflexes, but to his displeasure, he was trembling from fear. He remembered his mother, his brothers, Lord Wilkins, Aline, and last of all, his father. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and thought, if he get through this alive, he'll even be glad to see him.  
  
"Slithering little fella, ain'tcha?" to Holmes' a moment's relieve, he put the gun barrel upon his right shoulder. Behind him, a dark figure soundlessly landed from above. Aline gave Holmes a sideways grin as her feet padded across the floor without any noise. She stood right behind the man, raised her elbow high with determination. He reached behind him and grabbed a handful of dirty, blew it right into the man's face. Screaming with pain, he cried for his eyes. Aline hit squarely on the back of his neck, knocked him unconscious with a yelp. She picked up the gun, and tucked it into her belt. "How are you, Holmes?" she said and held out her hand.  
  
"Who, who," he was ashamed of his stuttering, "who is he?" he pointed at the man lying on the cold floor. Suddenly, he felt very cold sitting in the moonlight, he was practically, bathed, in cold sweat. Putting his hand on his heart, his breath relaxed a little, then he placed it in his companion's smaller hand, and got pulled to his feet.  
  
"A confederate of the Scarlet Ibis, must be him who informed the police. I should have known that he would position one of his men there. Ugh, stupidity," she hit her forehead. "I'm sorry, Holmes. This is all my fault," she put her arm through his to support him, "C'mon, let's get you home." He felt dizzy and sickly, and didn't remember much more than the bumpy hansom ride and climbing the tree to the window of his room. Before he got onto the cab, she handed him the gun she confiscated. "Here, take this. There are four bullets in here. Don't keep it out of reach and don't let your folks see it. Regnat trinité, my brother." He didn't even remember replying the Trinity motto to her. He did, however, vaguely remembered seeing two other figures in black came to pick up the unconscious man. But he couldn't tell if it was a dream or not. 


	11. eleventh

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Sherlock, what is wrong with you today? Are you feeling unwell or sick?" Victor Trevor put down the book he was reading. Holmes had been dropping beakers and spilling chemicals all morning. "Did something wrong happened when you were in London yesterday?" He paused and thought for a second, "how is your mother?"  
  
"My mother is fine, Trevor. And so am I. I'm just a little queasy from the trip, that's all."  
  
Trevor whistled, took up his book, then put it down, "Do you want to take a ride to the stables? Maybe the country air can clear your head."  
  
"No, what I need is to work. Thank you for the offer, my friend. But I need to catch up on my work." Trevor resumed his book, muttering something about his friend being an insensitive person. All his life, all those traveling, all those adventures, Holmes had never been so close to death as he was yesterday. Perhaps that was why he felt that he now had a second chance to renew the meaning of life. Nonetheless, he was still emotionally exhausted. There was so much on his mind that he couldn't concentrate. There was the Scarlet Ibis, the so-called traitor he was helping to capture, there was that man who tried to kill him, who called all Trinitians "cheats and liars," and there was also Alinere, who acted with such mysteriousness and always refused to answer his questions. What he needed now was an assignment, a divergent that could make his mind swim with concentration. A telegram was delivered to his room. It ran:  
  
SHERLOCK, WANT TO LOOK MORE INTO KPANICHKY CASE. STOP. COME TO 56 PATON ST TODAY AT NINE. STOP. DRESS DARK. STOP. MYCROFT  
  
Be careful of what you wish for.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Clad in black trousers and shirt, Holmes appeared at the designated place, but no Mycroft was in sight. While waiting, he still couldn't stop twitching his shoulders every time someone or something came by him. Damn the nerves, he thought with another shudder. Alas, he saw his brother, in a doorway two doors down. He let him into the house, and shut the door behind them. "Mycroft, where are we?"  
  
"This is the house of a friend of mine, whose father is the chief inspector in charge of this case," he spoke in his usual droll tone, "he had just received a package of some background check on the count." He saw the concern on his brother's face, "the family is out for the whole night, the servants are all sleeping after all that drinking."  
  
Without saying another word, they sneaked into the master's study. How convenient. The manila folder was right on the desk. Mycroft handed him a pair of gloves, then put on a pair on his own big hands. They divided the file into two smaller piles and started to examine them under the hissing gas-lamp light. These were mostly junks: deeds to estates in places in Russia no one's ever heard of; birth certificate, oh god, the man is already dead; several Russian newspaper articles with his pictures in them; then more correspondence written in Russian.  
  
"These can't help us," Mycroft threw them aside into a pile, then he picked up another piece of paper and called after he realize what it was, "Sherlock, look at this."  
  
It was the Count's will, translated into English:  
  
Here I, Frederick Vladmir, etc. Kpachinsky, Count of His Majesty's Royal Court, leaving in the event of my death, the right to the estate in Moscow, the title of count, and the sum of all the money under my name, etc. etc. to my daughter and heiress, Alinere Gertrude Kpachinsky, Countess of His Majesty's Royal Court of Russia.  
  
Then there was another detailed list of all the count's properties.  
  
  
  
"Do you think-" Holmes started.  
  
"It's still too early to say so. Insufficient data, Sherlock. Also, does she have the resource and motive to accomplish murder?" Holmes swallowed. She could take down three full grown men bare-handed, and there was nothing she couldn't do. And motive, yes, she hated her father, she told him so, she hated him to the marrow of her bones. But he couldn't tell Mycroft any of these, at least not yet. There must be a logical explanation to this without putting Aline as the culprit. There has to be. There has to be. "Sherlock? Are you all right?" He must have dozed out.  
  
"Oh, yes, yes, I am," he unknotted his brows as he looked into his brother's grey eyes. Mycroft patted him on the back and put the documents back into order.  
  
"Let's go now, there is nothing more for us to see." Holmes was a little relieved when his brother said, "Miss Alinere is probably the least likely murderer I've ever met, perhaps it might be someone else, someone close to her. I'll look in onto Lord Wilkins, Sherlock." Holmes nodded dumbly in reply. There has to be.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~@~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"What do you mean that she can't see me?" he roared into the poor boy's face.  
  
"Holmes," Hughenfort said cooly, "Lady Aline cannot see you because she is unable to. When she is able, your message will be replied by her in person." This was the same thing he had been repeating for hours. In truth, he was afraid of the much taller young man, who was getting angrier and angrier each second, but it was his job. Like all Trinitians, Maurice hold his work sacred. It was a great work he and his brothers were doing, and in order to accomplish their work, they had to obey their leader.  
  
"Fine, fine," he knew it was no use. He could wait, wait for the right time to ask her. He had poured all of himself into the Trinity, she has to be honest with him.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~{@}~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Oh, look'ver there, Sherlock, the tree-time fencing champ of Cambridge," Trevor pointed to a crowd not too faraway, "the girls are absolutely mad about him. Good looks, charms, and money are definitely over- rated, don't you think?"  
  
"Huh, what? Oh," Holmes was just pondering over a difficult mathematics problem concerning the binary system, "whatever you say." Darn it, he almost had the solution in his head.  
  
"Ah, look, he's coming this way. Sherlock? Sherlock?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Ugh," Victor shook his head.  
  
Holmes was glad that his friend was finally leaving him alone, but before he could be fully absorbed into his problem, an out-stretching had showed up in front of his bent-down face. Couldn't help but be a little irritated, he looked up and found Edward Rubrius, Duke of Hanmel, standing in front of him, smiling.  
  
"Hullo, Sherlcok," he flashed his usual toothy grin, "what are you doing on a fine day such as this?" Behind him, stood what could only be his group of admirers.  
  
"How do you do, Your Grace," he shook the offered hand limply.  
  
"Oh, please," Hanmel slapped the air with one of his pale hands, "how many times do I have to tell you to call my 'Edward'?" the crowd giggled. "Are you busy right now?"  
  
"Yes, yes, in fact I am." Holmes was getting impatient. Small talks bored him.  
  
"Would you care to have tea with me?" Hanmel was not one to give up. "I have business to speak to you about."  
  
"Business?" 


End file.
